


Superstiton (There's A Black Cat Crossing Your Path)

by beachkid (binz), binz



Category: Dresden Files - Butcher, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-11
Updated: 2008-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/beachkid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Black Cat's work is never done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Superstiton (There's A Black Cat Crossing Your Path)

**Author's Note:**

> No spoilers, but assumes you know who Murph's dad was.

By March they're moving again, this time driving north, maybe until they run out of land, at least until they run out of road, and when they reach Chicago they ghost through the city while he debates direction and coffee with himself.

It's nearing dawn – he's been driving all night – and the bits of sky John can see between buildings and concrete is pale and grey and distant. The boys are still asleep in the back, so he pulls over along a mostly deserted street that's nothing but a few parked cars and scattered trash marking the landscape.

He has the map spread across the passenger seat, over empty coffee cups and take-out bags, and is tracing the I-43 with a finger when someone screams.

He looks up and sees the alley through the dirt on the side passenger window, long and dark and tight between two old brick buildings. Dean shifts, Sammy's head on his lap and under an elbow, and somehow John has his gun in his hand. "Dean," he says, and the boy blinks, frowning through half-opened eyes. "Stay here," John says. "Don't open the doors," he adds, nd there's another scream, fainter and choked with air.

John's locked the Impala doors and is down the alley and almost prepared when he sees it, tall and wide and covered in fur and scales, limbs bent at the wrong angles and mouth too wide and too wet. It has a girl by the throat, tangles of her long hair bloody and knotted around its fingers-- claws-- and John shoots it until he's out of bullets.

It turns to him, and John has time to be thankful that it's dropped the girl, who's dragging herself away with her arms and broken high heels, before he hits the wall. His head smacks against the brick, loud in his ears until it's replaced with ringing, and the air rushes out of his body. He keeps a grip on his gun, though, and is gasping at the effort to raise it in time to block the thing's next swing when there's a crack and someone shoots it in the chest, a shower of glittering white raining down on John's arm.

He raises a hand to his mouth and presses his tongue against the shine. _Salt_, he thinks, _oh_, and watches the thing scream and shake as it's shot again and again. The girl is sobbing, and a man enters the alley, shotgun held at the ready, and the badge on his patrol uniform glinting in the scant light.

The cop stares at the thing, still and spread out on the ground, and at the girl, and at John. John uses the wall to push himself to his feet, and keeps his gun aimed at the ground. "Officer," he says, and adds, "you shot it with salt." The tang on his tongue agrees with him, and John wonders how hard he hit his head.

"Rock salt," the officer says. He comes closer, and John can just make out the name on his uniform. Murphy. "It's good for that sort of thing."

The girl whimpers, and Officer Murphy gives John a look – John does his best to seem wide-eyed and uninteresting – before going to her. He kneels slowly and smiles, and she pants like she's forgotten how to breathe, her hand shaking as she brings it to her head.

John looks away and out onto the street. Dean's face is pressed against the car window, and John raises his hand to wave, to tell him it's all okay.

"Little early to have the family out for a drive," Officer Murphy says, coming up behind him.

"Little late," John says. "Came up from," he searches, remembers, "Kansas."

Officer Murphy nods. "Wife with you?"

"No," John says. "No."

Murphy nods again, and John looks behind them. The girl is standing, leaning against the wall with Murphy's uniform jacket around her shoulders, her eyes closed. Her mouth is moving, and John looks at what's left of the thing before he can figure out what she's praying for.

"The ...body," he says. "It's. It."

"Sunlight," Officer Murphy says, tips his head at the sky, morning rising over the horizon. "Don't worry about it. Works wonders. It's like the world forgetting." The sunrise, bright and red, finds the things arm, and John watches as it lights up like gasoline and a match. "Be moving on, if I were you," Murphy continues. "Don't want those boys to get restless. Got some myself, and a daughter. They don't like to be kept still."

John nods, and looks back at Dean. Only the top of his head is showing, tuffs of hair and two eyes, but Sammy can be clearly seen, peering out of the window and pushing at his brother's head. "Right," John says. "Got a while to go yet." He hesitates, then reaches out and shakes Murphy hand. "Thanks," he says. "She-- is she going to be okay?"

The woman is staring at the mess the sun left behind, the greasy smear of the thing with claws and fangs and hunger, and she stomps on it, eyes bright and hands balled into fists.

"Part of the job," Murphy says. "She'll get through." He nods, smiles a little, and is still standing at the mouth of the alley when John drives away.


End file.
